


a real individual

by apaio



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Minor Violence, mild drug use, these tags make it sound darker than it is it's literally just a melodrama in three acts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 03:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apaio/pseuds/apaio
Summary: “What the fuck’s going on with you, Roger?” Freddie asks immediately, setting the paper down.Roger turns away and pours the water over his tea bag. He stirs it anxiously. He tries to think of some excuse, some believable lie, but it almost immediately gives him a headache.“I kissed him,” he says, giving up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi.. me again, hating myself for writing this x
> 
> anyway - here are the warnings for this work (it's done but i'll post it over the course of a few days): internalised homophobia, mild drug use (just weed lmao), mild sexual harassment, mild violence, and mild actual homophobia (coming from the standpoint of me being a lesbian.. i don't think it's that bad!). that all being said, it's really not that deep lmao.. catch me writing the five stages of grief for rog's heterosexuality
> 
> as always if you see any mistakes let me know as it's unbeta'd.. also this is set in probs around '73 i guess

It’s pushing three in the morning, and the frankly obscene number of people in his and Freddie’s flat has yet to show signs of leaving. The music had long-since packed up after someone spilt beer over the speaker, and the rumble of conversation buzzes in his head. The smoke that had built up over the course of the night was beginning to mean he couldn’t see the far end of the room, and the flat wasn’t that big in the first place. He lights another cigarette anyway.

Roger sat on the sofa, a girl perched on the arm draping her long legs over his lap. She has short hair, more boyish than Roger’s own, and dark eyeliner around her large hazel eyes. She is pretty, probably a little bit older than he is, and although he can only hear about half of what she is saying, seems both very smart and very interested. Perhaps, in another time, another situation, he would lead her up to his room at about this point.

As it happens, she isn’t the one he takes to his room.

John stands in the doorway, looking distinctly lost now that the music has stopped and Brian – the only person other than Freddie and Roger he knows, and the only one who had likewise been less inclined to get friendly with strangers – has left. An empty beer bottle hangs loosely in his long fingers, and Roger notices the empty box of Piccadilly cigarettes crushed into his pocket. It had been full at the start of the evening, Roger knows, and John isn’t generally inclined to chain smoking. He looks more closely and watches his jaw muscles working and the way he taps his fingers against the bottle in an anxious rhythm, and vows to act.

Roger stands, the girl’s legs shifting off of him as he does so, and he throws an apologetic glance towards her bemused face before he makes his way over to John.

“You alright, Deaks?” he asks as he takes his cigarette out of his mouth.

John looks up like he didn’t see him walk over, and relief flashes in his eyes. It makes something burn warm in Roger’s chest, and he offers him his cigarette.

John accepts it and takes a drag. “Yeah,” he says, and Roger immediately knows he’s lying.

“My room’s locked,” Roger says suddenly, and John gives him a look like he doesn’t quite understand. “If you wanted to get away from this lot.”

He huffs a laugh. “And what? Hide on my own in there?” he takes another drag on the cigarette before handing it back to Roger. “Thanks for the offer, Rog, but I think that might make me feel worse.”

John has this sad expression on his face that he’s trying to cover up with annoyance and discomfort. It makes Roger’s heart clench, which he doesn’t want to deconstruct too much.

“I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t feel like you have to,” he replies immediately. “It’s your party, Rog. Have fun.”

“I want to,” Roger protests.

John laughs again. “Yeah, right.”

Roger squares up his shoulders like it’ll help persuade John. “Really. Fred’s already fucked off out somewhere else, and the company leaves something to be desired.”

John still looks unsure. “You’re the host. You can’t leave.”

“I sure can,” he replies. “And I’m sure I’ll have better company in my room,” he states, placing a hand on John’s shoulder to lead him up the stairs.

John seems to give in then, and offers no more arguments. Roger scrambles for his key and unlocks the door, letting John in. It’s dark, so he switches on a lamp, not sure if he could handle the garish yellow of the ceiling light. He’s not really drunk anymore, but it doesn’t sound appealing.

When he turns back around, he catches John inspecting his records. He turns one in his hand with an odd expression. Roger can’t see what it is.

“See something you like?” he asks.

John turns around and holds up _My Generation_ by The Who. “This is the first album I ever bought,” he says with a sort of nostalgic smile, and it makes Roger smile too.

“Yeah?”

“I got it for ten shillings off a mate with the first money I’d ever earnt myself,” he continues before going to put it back.

Roger crosses the room and takes it from him before he does. “We can put it on if you like.”

John flashes a grin and Roger could preen at being the cause of it. He places it on the turntable and puts the needle on the record. The drawls of Pete Townshend’s opening guitar fill the room, even though the volume is turned down low.

“Do you want to smoke?” he asks abruptly.

“I’m out of fags, Rog,” John replies.

“No, I mean-” he pulls a joint out of his shirt pocket, vaguely remembering the girl he was with earlier dropping it in there at some point. He gestures with it.

“Oh,” John says. “Okay.”

Roger grins and walks to sit on the windowsill, gesturing for John to join him. He does, and their shoulders touch. Roger reaches up above them to crack open the window. He lights the joint and takes a draw, letting out a small cough as he hands it over to John, who does the same.

It goes like that for a little while, them just passing the joint between them as the record plays.

“Thanks,” John says abruptly.

“What, for the grass?”

John snorts and nudges him. “No, for coming up here with me.”

He laughs a little. “Well, what are friends for?”

John seems a little surprised at the statement, and falls into silence.

Roger frowns. “You don’t think we’re friends?” he asks softly.

“No!” John rectifies very quickly and a little loudly. “No,” he repeats, more quietly. “Of course I do, Rog. I thought you just felt bad for me, is all.”

“You’re my friend, John,” he says.

“I know, Roger,” he replies.

Roger stares at him, hoping that John might open up through his sheer power of will. It does, surprisingly, work.

John sighs. “I only didn’t think you’d want to leave a party for…just me.” He leans his head back against the window. “I know how you love parties, Rog.”

 _I love you_ jumps to his lips, but he doesn’t say it. He frowns at it, but he finds it pretty easy to forget enough to not dwell on it as he takes another drag of the joint.

“And there was the girl,” he adds.

“What girl?”

John frowns at him.

 _Oh, yeah_ , Roger remembers. She’d already slipped his mind. “Oh, that girl.”

“She was very pretty.”

“Yes,” he agrees.

“And she was flirting with you.”

“Yes,” he agrees again. John continues to look at him. “So what?”

“So why are you up here with me, smoking a spliff out your window, and not with her?” he asks.

Roger shrugs. “You’re more important to me than some one-off romp in the sheets.”

John doesn’t seem convinced, but he doesn’t press the issue. Roger looks at him and feels troubled over his apparent doubt at Roger’s care. He’s beginning to feel quite fuzzy, but he presses on.

“Are you alright, Deaky?” he asks.

“What?”

“You know you…matter to,” _me_ , “us, right?”

He laughs uneasily. “I think the dope’s turning you soft, mate.”

“John,” he says.

“It’s okay, Rog,” John offers him a self-deprecating glance. “I’m just the bass player.”

 _There it is_. “You’re not,” he says.

“You kicking me out of the band?” he jokes.

“Seriously, John,” Roger ignores him. “You’re more than that. We wouldn’t work without you.”

John isn’t looking at him anymore. He toes the floor anxiously.

“And you’re our friend. That might not matter much to a fucking record company or whatever, but it matters a hell of a lot to us.”

John is silent for a few moments. “Okay,” he says in the end, a little hoarsely.

Roger presses his shoulder against him more firmly.

At some point, they make their way to the bed. Roger can’t be bothered to perch on the windowsill anymore, his legs feeling increasingly unstable, and they finish the joint lying down.

They talk a lot, and then they’re laughing, though Roger isn’t sure what about. He feels heavy. The record crackles as it plays nothing.

He’s lying on his side, watching John’s profile. His long, wavy hair is splayed out on the pillow, and Roger finds himself absentmindedly fiddling with it. After a moment, he looks up to see John looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

“What?” he asks as he stops.

“You’re playing with my hair,” John points out.

Roger isn’t anymore, so he tells him that. “I’m not.”

“You were.”

John says it with a smile that lasts for a few moments longer before he lets out a breath and closes his eyes. His eyelashes flutter against his cheek. Roger wants to trace the outlines of his face with his fingers, but he doesn’t.

“John,” he says instead.

“Mm?” John replies, eyes opening as he rolls onto his side so he mirrors Roger.

Roger finds himself staring at his lips. He shifts forward and presses a soft kiss to them before setting his head back down, though much closer to John’s face than before.

“What did you do that for?” John asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

Roger shrugs. He didn’t really think it through. “I don’t know,” he says. “Wanted to.”

John seems satisfied with that answer and nods minutely. Roger thinks that’s it for a moment, but suddenly John’s hand is cupping his jaw and his lips are on his again.

It’s certainly more than just a peck this time, and Roger opens his mouth without much thought when he feels John’s tongue at his lips. The kiss is languid and gentle and Roger finds himself thinking that John’s actually quite a good kisser, which surprises him a little. He isn’t entirely sure how long it lasts, but it feels like anywhere between a few seconds and an eternity.

When he pulls away, John laughs again and rolls onto his back. Roger doesn’t remember much after that.

*

Roger wakes up on someone else’s chest. He’s got less of a hangover than he’d expect, but he still feels a sort of buzzing tiredness within him that he knows he won’t be able to sleep off. There’s an arm over his shoulders and he gets up slowly as to not disturb whoever it is. He sits, rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and looks.

It’s John, and for exactly half a second he has an _oh, fuck_ moment before he realises that they’re both fully clothed except for their shoes.

Exactly half a second later, he has another _oh, fuck_ moment and touches his fingers to his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's popping.. as i said this is done i'm just posting it over the course of a few days in case i want to make edits on what i wrote late one night
> 
> anyway in terms of warnings for this chapter - internalised homophobia and like. arguing i guess?? whatever it's angst time x
> 
> as always - unbeta'd, let me know if anything's wrong.. also this is actually probably mid '74? the album they're recording is sheer heart attack

Their living room is empty – of people, at least – when Roger walks through it to get to the kitchen. He puts on the kettle and rests his head on the counter as it boils.

To Freddie’s disappointment, Roger’s never so much as kissed another man before. It’s never really been his thing, and he’s never really been interested. He thinks about John’s long hair and his heels and his soft demeanour and briefly considers blaming society as a whole for changing acceptabilities and simply confusing him, before he realises that’s a deeply shoddy argument.

He kissed John because he wanted to. He was high, but he had wanted to. Roger thinks for a moment, and realises sourly that he’s possibly wanted to for a while longer than just last night. He thinks of how he’s always distracted by John’s swaying hips on stage, how he’s always glad it’s them sharing hotel rooms before gigs, the flashes of what he now recognises as jealousy – not protectiveness – when women have taken it upon themselves to break in the young bassist into the rock and roll scene.

Roger likes women. It’s basically a staple of his personality. Roger doesn’t like men. He’s been offered it plenty of times – he’s attractive enough – but he’s turned them down every time. He doesn’t, he can’t-

Roger’s very close to panic.

“Good morning,” he hears Freddie’s voice behind him and nearly jumps ten feet into the air.

He turns around. “Morning.”

Freddie eyes him suspiciously as he sits down at the table, dressed in only a dressing gown. “You slept in that?”

Roger looks down at himself – the outfit he wore last night – and nods.

Freddie hums noncommittally. “Do you know if Deaky got home alright?” he asks as he opens a newspaper.

“No!” he says quickly. “Why would I- I didn’t see him. How would I know? He- he-” Roger swallows. “He’s a grown man, I’m sure he can look after himself.”

Fred looks at him like he’s grown a second head and it’s just started singing opera in their kitchen. The kettle clicks as it finishes boiling behind him, and even that makes him jump.

“Are you quite alright, Roger?” Freddie asks, and it’s a perfectly reasonable question, though not one Roger knows the answer to.

John chooses that moment to walk into the kitchen. He’s carrying his shoes.

“John,” Roger squeaks.

Freddie gives Roger another look. Roger wants to sink into the cabinet he leans on.

“Morning, darling,” Freddie greets. “How are you?”

“Morning, Fred. I’m alright, considering,” he says.

“Would you like tea?” Roger asks John awkwardly.

John looks at him like he’s only just noticed him and Roger swears he can see him blush. Something wholly unwelcome inside him swoons at it. “N-no thank you, Roger. I was just off, actually.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for breakfast?” Freddie asks him.

“I’m alright,” John replies. He goes to leave. “I’ll see you later, Fred,” he says. He turns to Roger, and for a moment looks like he wants to say something. “Bye, Roger,” he goes with.

Roger stares after him. “Bye,” Roger he remembers, a little too late, John already gone.

He hears their front door close seconds later.

“What the fuck’s going on with you, Roger?” Freddie asks immediately, setting the paper down.

Roger turns away and pours the water over his tea bag. He stirs it anxiously. He tries to think of some excuse, some believable lie, but it almost immediately gives him a headache.

“I kissed him,” he says, giving up.

Freddie’s probably the only one he’d want to talk to about this, anyway. He’s a safe party, at least, Roger knows.

“You what?”

He turns back around to face Fred. Freddie looks confused, his brow furrowed, but there’s a slight smile playing on his lips. Roger hates it, because he doesn’t want to laugh about it, because this is calling everything Roger knows about himself into question, but he needs to get it off his chest.

“We got high last night, and I kissed him,” Roger says.

“Did he kiss you back?”

“Freddie-”

“Well, did he?”

“Yes,” Roger thinks, wistful for a beat before shaking himself out of it. _Fuck_ , he thinks, _what’s going on?_

Freddie claps his hands together. “Well, this is great. I was waiting for you both to pull your heads out of your respective arses-”

Roger growls and aggressively flings the tea bag into the bin. “It is decidedly not great, Freddie.”

“You like him; he likes you-” Fred says.

 _He likes me?_ Roger thinks and he feels his heart flutter. He wills it to stop immediately, denies it being true to himself, and feels sick to his stomach. It probably shows on his face.

“What’s the matter?”

“He’s a man,” Roger says simply.

It makes Freddie’s expression drop, and Roger immediately regrets how it sounds.

“That’s different,” he says quickly. Fred’s never told him, but he’s not blind, and he tries to rectify it. “I don’t mean- it doesn’t bother me. Men with men,” he says, “or girls with girls,” he adds with a frown, realising he’s getting side-tracked. “It really doesn’t. I promise you.” He offers Freddie what he hopes is a reassuring look.

Freddie seems to soften. “Then why does it matter if Deaky’s a man?”

“I’m not- I can’t be-” Roger says, before he feels his shoulders slump. “Because it’s me,” he says.

Freddie gives him this blank expression and Roger thinks he’s fucked up again. Fred stands, and Roger thinks he’s about to leave and he’s just so _tired_ and he doesn’t want to have to try and fix it, but he just makes his way over to him and hugs him. Roger freezes for a moment.

“It’s okay, Rog,” Freddie says.

Roger wraps his arms around his friend and buries his head in his shoulder. He doesn’t cry, no matter how much he thinks he might, but he feels the tension draining from his body and he just feels exhausted. Freddie runs his hand through his hair.

“It’s okay.”

*

It isn’t okay, not really, but he pretends that it is. He doesn’t pretend very well, because he can’t maintain eye contact with John and feels decidedly shaky around him.

“Do you want me to forget about it?” John asks him quietly the next day in the recording studio, taking him aside. He’s so thoughtful and compassionate and Roger just wants to fall into his arms. He looks concerned, his green eyes searching Roger’s expression as if he might be able to work out what’s wrong.

“Yes,” he whispers, even though it’s a lie. Or perhaps it isn’t – Roger doesn’t want to be questioning himself like this, like his world is crashing down around him. “For the band,” he explains weakly.

He half expects an argument, but John just nods resolutely. His expression is blank, his mouth drawn into a determined sort of grimace, and Roger wants to press his lips against John’s and take it away. He doesn’t, and John returns to the room where Brian and Freddie sit, hashing out some half-written ballad of Fred’s, and Roger thinks _that’s it_. It’s upsetting, but he’ll get over it.

The worst thing about it is that he can’t even pretend that he doesn’t have feelings for John now. He can’t reject them, or ignore them, as they’ve made themselves glaringly obvious. He’s not entirely sure how John feels – although both Freddie’s comments and John actually kissing him do point in a certain direction – but he can’t deal with it. Roger’s always been more of a coward than he lets on.

The best he can do is just forget about that night and move on, and hope that he somehow manages to compartmentalise it and forget. He hopes that's the end of it.

*

It’s not.

John starts ignoring him. Maybe that’s the start of it.

They work together perfectly cordially, but when the group retires to the bar in the evening, he barely says a word to him. He can feel his disapproving eyes on him every time he chats up some girl at the bar, or leaves with one in tow, but there are no words shared between them. He doesn’t even make fun of him about it like he used to.

Roger isn’t quite sure why he’s annoyed that John seems to disapprove about his promiscuity.

Or maybe it’s Roger’s constant, underlying anger at just about everything.

He snaps at the slightest thing. Brian and Freddie are exhausted with it, and the arguments between the four of them rise tenfold. He struggles to restrain himself in his drumming when he needs to, preferring to – as Freddie put it – beat the shit out of his kit.

Freddie would give him some half-arsed talk about how repressing his feelings clearly isn’t doing him any good. Roger would tell him to shut up.

It goes on for a couple of weeks, and a major fuck up between them was only a matter of time. Their arguments are getting increasingly personal, and Roger can feel the strain of their dynamics, particularly as the stress to complete the album increases.

It happens on a Thursday. They’ve packed up and Freddie and Brian have already left. They frequent the pub less together at the moment. John comes up to him just as he’s sorting through his scrawled notes and lyrics.

“Is this about the kiss?” he asks.

“What?” Roger asks confrontationally. He feels like he’s spoiling for a fight, and he thinks John will give it to him if he pushes.

“You…being so difficult,” John replies. “Is it about the kiss?”

“I thought you said it was forgotten,” Roger mutters.

John glares at him. “It clearly isn’t.”

Roger just huffs.

“Can you at least tell me what I’ve done wrong?”

“Not everything’s about you, John.”

It is, pretty clearly, about him, but Roger really doesn’t want to talk about it.

Roger turns away, piling up the pieces of paper of edits on their songs neatly onto the piano as a way of not looking at John. He can still feel his eyes on him, and he spins around to face him. Anger brews inside him like a storm.

“If you had just gone home, like you wanted to-”

That seems to spark John off, anger crossing his face. “Oh, so this _is_ my fault now?”

“Of course it’s your fucking fault!” Roger snaps. “You kissed me!”

John stares at him for a moment in incredulous silence. “You kissed me first!” he shouts.

“I was high,” Roger replies. “You were the one who shoved your tongue down my fucking throat.”

John puts his hands on his hips. He looks angrier than Roger’s ever seen him. “So did you!” he retorts. “You said you wanted to forget it, so I left it. You’re the one being so fucking childish over all of this.”

Roger stares for a moment. “Childish?” he questions loudly.

“Yes!” he replies. “You said it’d be better forgotten so it didn’t impact the band. Now it _is_ impacting the band, and you’re the one doing it! You’re such a hypocrite, Roger.”

Roger’s temper flares then, and he balls his hands into fists. “I’m the hypocrite? You’re the one who’s been ignoring me!”

“Ignoring you?”

“You don’t come out with us anymore if I’m there, you barely talk to me, even to argue,” he continues. “You act so high and mighty like _I’m_ the only one in the wrong, but you’re causing at least as much shit as me by being so…aloof!”

John stares at him.

“You stand there calling me childish and a hypocrite but if it wasn’t for you being so fucking _awkward_ then none of this would ever have happened in the first place,” it’s mean and personal and Roger sees John flinch at it, but he’s on a roll. “Whatever. Call me what you like. I don’t care what you think.”

He’s won the argument, or at least stunned John enough to end it, but he can’t resist the death blow.

“After all, you are _just_ the bass player,” he spits.

John pales and his expression drops, like Roger’s just slapped him in the face, and he suddenly feels like he’s just committed some heinous crime. There’s nothing he wants more than to take the words back in that instant, take them back and wipe the pain from John’s face. John doesn’t even manage to school his features into the usual blank expression he manages when he’s upset. The pain is raw in his eyes, and Roger regrets everything that’s led them to that moment.

“John-” he starts softly, and he’s not even surprised to find himself void of anger.

John leaves and slams the door, leaving Roger alone. He feels like the world is ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry i have 3.5k words written that fix this


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok,, most of the actual warnings apply to this chapter - internalised homophobia (still), minor sexual harassment (catcalling i guess?? kinda??), actual homophobia (two or three slurs, i think - again, i don't think it's that bad and i'm a lesbian), minor violence and blood and that's about it
> 
> anyway - thank you so much for your comments!! i'm gonna hopefully get around to answering them soon but,, yeah. really big thank you for that
> 
> unbeta'd, lmk any mistakes

The next few days are painful, and guilt churns in Roger’s stomach. John comes in, plays exactly how he’s supposed to, and leaves. He’s gone every time Roger might get a chance to speak to him alone, and every day fixing it feels further and further from his reach.

Freddie shoots him disapproving glances, and even Brian’s managed to pick up he’s done something wrong.

He doesn’t even come with them to the bar anymore, and Roger would prefer his disapproving looks to his absence any day. It doesn’t stop him though, and he fucks his way through half the female patrons in about a week. He feels like he’s trying to prove something to himself, and it feels distinctly empty every time.

He’d give anything to go back to how it used to be before the night of the party.

By the end of the week, Roger’s burned himself out. He’s sad, he’s lost, and he’s _queer_ , and he doesn’t know what to do, and the one person who probably would won’t speak to him. He takes himself to a different bar that night. He’s not looking to pick anyone up, just to drown his sorrows.

He’s about three pints in when he sees him.

John sits at the other end of the bar with the same dark ale as Roger in the pint glass in front of him. He doesn’t think he’s noticed him yet, and Roger’s either had enough to drink or is just too dejected to panic. Perhaps, he thinks, he could go over. Perhaps, it is the time to fix things.

He watches John sigh and fiddle with a beer mat in front of him, sees the downward turn of his face, and he knows he’s the reason it’s there. He’d probably only make it worse.

Roger thinks about it for a moment before flagging down the bartender. He pushes over some change.

“Another for him,” he gestures to John. “On me.”

The bartender nods, and draws John another pint. When it’s placed in front of him, he gestures back to Roger.

Roger sees his shoulders slump when he sees him, and a sense of cold rushes down his spine. He downs his pint and leaves.

It’s dark outside – Roger isn’t sure why he’s surprised – and a group of three youngish men stand leant against the wall a little further down from the pub. They’re smoking and laughing obnoxiously and Roger fixes his eye contact to the ground, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walks past them.

“Oi, show us your tits, love!” one of them shouts.

It’s happened before – men thinking he’s a woman – and he’s generally learnt to ignore them. But everything that’s happened is flowing over and before he can help himself he’s striding over.

“What did you say?” he hisses.

The guy who spoke blanches at his rough voice. His two mates seem to find it hilarious.

“Hey, it’s a bloke,” the taller one says, a tinge of what Roger thinks is Mancunian in his voice.

Roger regrets not walking past, but he balls his hands into fists and snarls.

“What you get from looking like that then, mate?” he continues, mocking. “You a poof?”

The rest of them laugh, and Roger feels his heart sink in his chest. The feeling is quickly overtaken by a force of sheer anger, and he draws his shoulder back about to throw a punch. A hand on his shoulder stops him, and he turns to come face to face with John’s soft expression.

He’s looking at him with an expression somewhere between gentle and warning, concern in his eyes. The ugly yellow of the streetlamp behind him accentuates his silhouette, and Roger thinks he looks like a holy figure in some great classical painting. Roger’s heart clenches at the sight, and he feels a strange sense of elation at seeing him.  

“Roger, don’t,” he says quietly, like he’s trying to calm down a vicious animal.

The man who’s been talking looks John up and down. “You a poof too, eh?” he asks before he looks back to Roger. “This your boyfriend?”

John’s trying to pull him away, but Roger shakes him off and squares up against the man. “What the fuck did you say?”

“He certainly looks it,” he comments. “Look at his worried little face," he says, addressed to John in a patronising voice. "Bet he’s the one biting the pillow at night,” the guy turns to his friends as they laugh.

Roger throws the punch without thinking, and the man reels, one hand holding him up against the wall and the other clasping his now bleeding nose. Roger feels very self-satisfied for a moment, pain stinging his knuckles before one of the other lads meets his eyes.

Roger’s about to hit out again, but John’s hand is back on his shoulder. Roger goes to tell him to fuck off, to let him stand up for them, for _John_ , and he turns around just in time to see a fist go sailing past where his head had been. It makes impact on the bridge of John’s nose, and Roger freezes up. He’s semi-aware of the men behind him, but all that’s on his mind is John.

John’s hands fly to his face and he stumbles back; Roger steps forward, clasping at his shirt to stop him going over. There’s blood, Roger can see that much, and he wants nothing more than to be sick. Instead, he stands in front of him, putting himself between him and the men. He’s ready to go again, to defend John with his life, but if he isn’t glad to hear the warning wail of a police siren. Roger looks up to see the car pulled up a few yards down the road, and makes eye contact with the glaring occupant.

The lads take off down the road, deciding it’s not worth their trouble.

Roger turns back to John, who is still leant over a little. His nose is bleeding, but his hand is in the way and Roger can’t tell if his nose is broken. He places a hand on his shoulder and John flinches, and Roger doesn’t think he’s ever felt worse about anything in his life.

“Deaky,” he says softly. “Let me have a look.”

John doesn’t respond.

“John, please,” he asks, a little desperately.

John stands up and slowly removes his hands from his face. Roger would prefer more light than the streetlamp above them, but it’ll have to do. John’s nose is bleeding, and he can make out the reddening mark on the bridge of his nose and he thinks he might have a black eye tomorrow, but it looks like it could be worse.

Roger touches it experimentally, and John hisses. “Sorry,” he murmurs, “it’s alright.”

John just watches him with an unreadable expression.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Roger says hoarsely, feeling like none of this is real and that he’s miles away. His hand still hurts, but it's numb to him. “Let me take you back to mine and get you fixed up.”

“You don’t have to,” John tells him then, subdued, and Roger just wants to cry. He feels like he’s broken whatever was between them beyond repair.

“I know,” he says quietly. “But I want to.”

*

The lights in his bathroom are significantly better than the streetlamp, and it makes Roger feel the worse for it. John sits on the toilet seat with two scrunched up pieces of tissue up his nose, and to his side half a roll’s worth of bunched up, bloody toilet paper. Roger crouches in front of him and angles his face to get a better look.

“You’ll probably have a black eye in the morning,” he says. “I can get you some painkillers,” he suggests.

John shakes his head. “I’m alright,” he says quietly.

Roger hand him some ice wrapped in a tea towel and perches himself on the edge of the bathtub. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he doesn’t know which specific thing it’s for.

John watches him past the ice he holds to his face, but doesn’t speak.

“God, John, I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’ve really fucked up,” he says, running a hand over his face.

They sit there in silence for a little while, and Roger can’t get any of the words out that he needs to say. John doesn’t say anything and shifts uncomfortably on the seat under Roger’s gaze. Roger didn’t even realise he was staring.

The bleeding looks to have stopped, and John takes the tissue out of his nose. He drops it in the bin and sniffs. Roger quietly bunches up some more toilet paper and runs it under the cold tap, approaching John again. He’s surprised that John lets him wipe the dried blood around his nostrils and on his upper lip. He feels John watching him intently as he does, and forces himself not to make eye contact.

“Come on,” Roger says, offering a hand to help him stand. “I’ll get you a clean shirt.”

John takes his hand, and Roger’s skin tingles with the brief contact. It’s quickly dropped once John has stood, and Roger finds his skin aching at the loss. He leads him to his bedroom, and for a brief moment is reminded of the night it all started. _My Generation_ still sits leant against the wall behind the record player. If John notices, he doesn’t comment, and Roger goes to get him a t-shirt.

It’s simple, plain white, one Roger tends to sleep in rather than wear and he picks it out when it crosses his mind that he should offer John his bed for the night. He doesn’t know if he can afford to pay for John’s taxi at this time of night. He hands over the shirt without a word.

John holds onto it and looks at him.

“Could you-” he begins to ask, voice hoarse from misuse, and Roger thinks John could ask him for anything in that moment and he’d agree.

As it stands, he doesn’t ask anything at all, and Roger pieces together a second later that John wants him to look away. He does, steps away to fiddle absentmindedly with the clothes in his wardrobe. He catches sight of John in the mirror and is immediately distracted.

He watches John turn around, unbutton his shirt and remove it, letting it slip to the floor. It’s not like he hasn’t seen John undress before, but the moment feels intensely private, and Roger feels like he should look away. He doesn’t, preoccupied with the expanse of pale skin stretched over muscle and bone as John pulls the shirt on. He swallows, and once John is dressed, he turns back around to face him.

John stands, and looks like he might say something, but he doesn’t. Roger hates himself for it.

John is leant against a set of drawers, hands resting on its edge, long fingers curled over the wood. The shirt is slightly too small for him, stretching over his shoulders, and his hair falls in waves over it. Even with the reddening nose, he looks good, Roger finds himself thinking, before cursing that _that’s_ what he’s thinking about at that moment.

Before his brain catches up to him, Roger finds himself walking over. He moves slowly, making sure John has every opportunity to stop him or to move as he crowds into his space. Roger isn’t really thinking and he knows it, the only thought in his mind about John’s watchful expression and curious eyes.

Roger kisses him gently. It’s brief, and he pulls them apart almost immediately, not really moving any further away. He searches John’s expression for any disapproval, and when he doesn’t find any, he kisses him again. It’s slow and drawn out, and John responds cautiously.

Roger brings a hand up to his face and deepens the kiss, and Roger can feel John’s hands slip into his back pockets, drawing him in closer. Their hips bump together, and Roger is intensely aware that it wouldn’t take much to pull them backwards onto the bed. He hooks his fingers into the belt loops of John’s trousers and pulls him back with him. Roger’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and they fall back.

They move further up the bed, never really breaking apart. John knees are either side of his hips, and Roger’s suddenly very aware that he’s pressed underneath him. It pushes something anxious into his heart, but he doesn’t want to stop, so he rolls them onto their sides.

It’s like before, he thinks absently, side-by-side on Roger’s bed, pressing long kisses into each other’s mouths. Before he even registers what he’s doing, Roger finds himself undoing John’s fly, fingers curling over the waistband.

John breaks them apart then, pressing a hand to his chest as if to stop him. Roger freezes, worried that he’s done something wrong, but John’s expression is gentle and open, and Roger can see _everything_ , and he realises he can’t fix things just with his actions.

“Roger,” he says quietly. “Can we talk?”

 _Fuck_ , is Roger’s immediate thought, quickly followed by an intense need to run away. He sighs, and rolls onto his back. “Yeah,” he says, before sitting up.

John follows suit, and looks at him with relief. _Something_ rushes in Roger’s chest at it, and he consigns himself to actual emotional vulnerability with a sigh.

“Okay,” John says, and sounds like he’s steeling himself. For the first time, it occurs to Roger that John might be having as many issues with this as he is, and he feels stupid for not realising. “Why did you kiss me?”

“Because I wanted to,” Roger says stupidly.

John seems to accept the answer, and nods.

“Why did you kiss me?” Roger asks softly.

It earns him a temperate smile. “Because I wanted to,” John says.

It’s so soft and tender and Roger’s heart swells at it, and he knows in that instant that he has to fix this. “I’m sorry, John.”

“It’s okay, Rog,” he replies, like he’s forgiving him, and Roger just wants to scream.

“It’s not,” he says, and he feels like he might cry. John seems like he might interrupt, so Roger holds up a hand. “Just…let me, yeah?” _For once in your life, be an adult about this_ , he thinks to himself.

He stares, looking a little bewildered.

“I’m sorry I got you punched,” he starts, “and I’m sorry I was an arsehole. And most of all I’m sorry for what I said.”

John watches him, and Roger has to look away. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to continue while looking at him.

“It’s not true. I didn’t mean it. You’re so important to me, Deaks,” he says, and he can hear his voice crack, “and I’m so sorry that I ever let you believe that you weren’t.”

“It’s alright, Roger,” John repeats, stressing it like Roger’s the one who needs comforting. Perhaps he does, but he doesn’t deserve it.

Roger looks up at him with tears in his eyes. “Why are you forgiving me so easily? I- I shouldn’t have- You trusted me with something, and I used it to hurt you. How are you okay with that?”

John is quiet for a moment, as if formulating his words. “I’m not okay with it, Rog,” he says, and it makes Roger’s heart break. “What you said – and I know you didn’t mean it, but it really…hurt, you know?”

He says it, and Roger can _see_ it. There are tears in John’s eyes too, and Roger hates himself even more. He thinks that even if they talk tonight, there’s more to it, and he’ll be dealing with it for much longer than that. He did more damage than he can fix in one night, and the guilt he feels chokes him.

“But I understand,” John says, offering a smile. “You’re scared, and I understand. So that’s why I forgive you.”

Roger stares at him, in almost wonder at the man in front of him. He wills himself to speak, but he can’t.

“What are you scared of, Rog?” John asks gently.

Roger wants to tell him, or deny it, or anything, but all he can do is sit in silence on the bed and will himself not to cry at himself or John’s patience or the whole damn situation.

“When I was fifteen, I had this friend,” John says suddenly, and Roger wants to ask why, but finds himself just listening. “Daniel, was his name. We were both kind of loners, met in the library.”

“Geek,” Roger comments good-humouredly, trying to lighten the mood.

“Sod off,” John says and rolls his eyes, but smiles all the same. “We…clicked, I guess. I’d never really had that before.” He pauses, almost wistfully, and Roger finds himself entranced. “He told me one day that he’d just got a guitar from his uncle. He knew I played, and I offered to teach him. He came to my house a couple of days a week for about a month, and he was a natural. It was great.”

Roger can hear a tightness in his voice, and he isn’t quite sure where the story’s going, but he doesn’t think he’s going to like it.

“One evening, he was leaving. He was just about to open the door, when he turned around and,” John clenches and unclenches his jaw, “kissed me. And for a moment, I enjoyed it.”

John doesn’t continue for a moment, and Roger finds himself speaking softly before he even registers it himself. “What did you do?”

John smiles tearfully. “I slapped him,” he says. “I’d never hit anyone before, and he was my closest friend.”

Roger watches him sympathetically.

“I didn’t- It wasn’t even legal then, Rog,” he says, like he’s trying to defend himself. “Christ, it wouldn’t even be legal _now_ , we were fifteen.” John swallows then. “I didn’t see him much again after that. That was it.”

He doesn’t really know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

“I was _so_ scared, Rog, and I had no one,” John tells him, before he blinks away the tears in his eyes and looks at Roger with more sincerity than Roger has ever seen directed at him. “No matter what, Roger, you’re not alone. Please talk to me.”

Roger looks down, and he can still feel John’s eyes on him. He takes a deep, shaky breath.

“I have feelings for you,” he says, and though he wants to see John’s reaction he thinks if he looks up he’ll never be able to finish. “I have done for a while, but I guess I just didn’t realise until that night. I was just…so scared,” he continues. “It’s like there was this person I was supposed to be, and then all of a sudden, I wasn’t him anymore.”

Now he’s started, it’s like opening the floodgates. He’s immensely grateful that John doesn’t interrupt him and simply sits there and listens.

“And I thought that if I just shut it all away it’d go away and I wouldn’t have to deal with it, but I was wrong. That’s why I asked you to forget it happened, but I wanted nothing more than to do it again. I never asked you what _you_ wanted or how _you_ feel.

“I’m not denying it, or- or- running from it anymore. I won’t say I’m not scared, because I’ve never been more terrified in my life,” he says. “But I think…I’ve made peace with it now.”

Roger’s surprised the tears in his eyes haven’t fell when he finished. He doesn’t think he’s been spoken that much about his feelings in his life, and he isn’t entirely sure he likes it.

A hand cups his jaw and he looks up to see that John has moved closer to him. He draws Roger in for a hug, and the tears finally fall. He runs a hand through Roger’s hair gently and shushes him as he cries onto his shoulder.

“Alright,” he murmurs in his ear. “It’s alright.”

Roger reluctantly pulls away after a few moments as soon as he becomes aware of how wet John’s shoulder is getting. “Sorry,” he says, and wipes at his face.

As soon as he stops, John’s hand returns to his jaw and draws him in for a brief, chaste kiss, and John gives him this tender look that makes Roger’s entire brain stop working. He watches him intently.

“I really like you, Rog,” he says. “That’s how I feel.”

Roger stares at him in awe.

“And I’m shit-scared too,” John adds with a smile and a tightness in his voice.

Roger laughs tearily despite himself and pulls John in for another kiss. It feels like the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading


End file.
